


The Thousand Threads

by Book7BrokeMyBrain



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bees! - Freeform, I kind of broke Mycroft a little, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mystrade if you want to squint, Post-Hiatus, Stakeout Snog
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 04:10:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/646401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Book7BrokeMyBrain/pseuds/Book7BrokeMyBrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“First mistake.  James Moriarty isn’t a man at all – he’s a spider; a spider at the center of a web – a criminal web with a thousand threads and he knows precisely how each and every single one of them dances.”</i>  – Sherlock Holmes, The Reichenbach Fall</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cleflink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleflink/gifts).



“Right.” Emily pulled away from John's kiss and stood up from the sofa. “I'm leaving. That caterwauling is giving me a headache. Again.”  
“Em, don't. We can go up to my room. You can hardly hear it up there.”  
She bent down and pressed a kiss to John's cheek. “Or, your flatmate could just respect your need for quiet and privacy when you're trying to get off with your date.”  
“That,” John said with resignation, “will never, ever happen, I'm afraid.” He stood to see her out as she grabbed her coat. “Sure you have to leave?” He wrapped his arms around her waist, groaning ruefully as she ran her palm down his fly, then cupped him.  
“I do regret leaving _this_ behind tonight. I was hoping we would get to meet later. Hm.” She pushed John away gently. “Pity.” She turned toward the kitchen and waved her fingers at Sherlock who watched the proceedings with keen eyes as he scratched his bow over the strings.  
As she headed down the stairs, John called over the railing, “I'm a doctor! I have paracetamol!” He sighed heavily as he heard the front door close. “And chronic... frustration. Terrific.”  
He walked into the kitchen, crossed his arms, leaned a hip against the table. “What the hell are you doing?”  
Sherlock lowered his bow for the first time in about an hour. “I'm trying to find a harmonic to which the common honeybee will respond. I used to play for a jar full of flies, but bees, I'm finding, are much more responsive. And more aesthetically pleasing, if one must stare at a jar of insects for hours at a time.” He shrugged slightly and sniffed. “And they're fuzzy.”  
“Is the fuzziness cute, then? Are you going all soppy for warm, fuzzy things now? Shall I start texting you LOLCat links?”  
“Don't be ridiculous, John. I'm sure the fuzz acts like thousands of antennae picking up the vibrations.”  
“So, basically, you're pissing off a jar of angry bees on our kitchen table. Good luck. And don't forget to release them before they all die, will you?”  
Sherlock looked affronted. “I would never let them die. I plan to feed them.”  
John sighed and rubbed his face. He walked over to fill the kettle. He stood, leaning his hands against the counter, waiting for the boil. “Hang on. Feed them? Please tell me – just promise you will open the jar of angry bees _outside_ when you feed them. All right?”  
“It's too cold for that.”  
“Oh, god. I'm done. I'm for a shower.”  
Sherlock played a few real notes, then trailed off. “I don't know why you bother.”  
“What? Showering?”  
“Dating. It's fruitless.”  
“Is it? I wonder why.”  
“Your fiancee left you, and yet you keep trying. That's admirable, I suppose.”  
“Mary. Her name was Mary. And if I ever want to get a leg over again, I have to date, don't I?”  
Sherlock shrugged, or perhaps just hitched his shoulder to welcome the violin, as he began a lovely tune.  
John pulled out his phone as he entered the bathroom. He composed a plaintive text to Lestrade.  
_Please god, tell me you have a case.  
He's driving me insane._

* * *

Lestrade took some pleasure in lording the file over Sherlock. He and John sat in the uncomfortable chairs opposite Lestrade's desk. Sherlock watched the manila folder, obviously stuffed with mysteries, move back and forth in the air with Lestrade's every gesture. Soon, the Inspector took to moving it on purpose as he spoke, and tracked the detective's gaze. He laughed.  
“You want this so much, but you aren't even listening any more, are you?”  
Sherlock reached out his open hand. “Just give it over.”  
“ _Please_ ', Detective Inspector,'” John prompted, “ _Thank you_ ', Detective Inspector.'”  
Sherlock tsked. “Why? He's obviously in over his head again. He ought to be thanking _me_.”  
Lestrade pulled the folder back to himself, laid it on the desk, laced his fingers over it. “I am not in over my head. This case? Not so much a case, and not my division. The subject in here... he's trouble, but I have a hunch that he's been more trouble than we know. Oh, have it already.” He tossed the folder to Sherlock's waiting hands, who immediately flipped it open, scanning the contents.  
“His name is Edgar Neap. He's an importer of goods, to put it euphemistically. Basically, anything that can be counterfeited for money, he brings in, be it DVDs, designer bags, watches, shoes, very low level stuff. Lately, I've been hearing his name come up in more serious cases of assault, drugs. I think he's moving up in the world. Before one of his crimes lands him under the purview of homicide... well, I thought I'd let you boys see if you could find something on him that the Yard could sink its teeth in. Bit of surveillance that I can't justify until he's killed someone. I'm sure it's coming.”  
Sherlock pulled out a large color photo and showed it to John, who leaned in for a better look. Neap was in his thirties, thin build, dark hair, gingery beard, dark eyes, ostentatious clothing.  
John flinched. “Awful suit. Any idea where he hangs his hat, where the center of the empire lies?”  
“Seems he either owns a club in the East End or just spends an awful lot of time there. Big enough, with storage out the back. Enough for a smallish operation. Lots of people coming and going at all hours, suppliers, customers. Whaddaya say, Sherlock? Feel like giving him a once over for me? Might be nothing.”  
“It's never nothing, Inspector. If he's getting greedy, I'll spot it. Come, John.”  
Before John could even stand, Sherlock was out the door in a swirl of coat, cradling the folder to his breast. John took Lestrade's hand and shook it warmly. “Seriously. I owe you a pint. Cheers, Greg.”

* * *

John lowered the paper and checked his watch. Dinner time, for the second time since Sherlock brought that file back to the flat. The file which was now, essentially, wallpapering one side of the sitting room.  
“Sherlock, have you eaten at all since breakfast yesterday?”  
“Not hungry,” he murmured, his nose in his laptop.  
“Not what I asked you.” John folded the paper. “I'm hungry, and you're eating with me.”  
“Umm, no.”  
“Right.” John stood briskly and strode to their shared desk. He pressed the screen down until it closed with a soft click. “You're taking a break.”  
“John!” Sherlock spread his hands in dismay. “What are you doing?”  
“As the doctor in residence, I insist that you step away from the case, eat something and perhaps sleep. You know you can't process properly when your _transport_ is tired. Come on.” He tried to drag Sherlock from his chair to another chair, perhaps in the kitchen, close to food and water, but Sherlock engaged the hyper mass density of a toddler, and couldn't be budged. John tugged under his armpits to no avail. “Oh, come on.”  
“No! I'm almost there! I think I know what Neap is up to. He's bringing in something –”  
“Shut it, Holmes. Get up, you great baby. Up!” John heaved heartily until Sherlock fairly slipped off the chair.  
“Ow! _Fine_.” Sherlock unfolded his legs and stood unsteadily. “But I'm not hungry.”  
John dragged him into the kitchen, watched as he drank a glass of water. He put on the kettle, opened a can of beans and popped some bread into the Dualit. He stirred the beans in a pot, watching Sherlock continue his thoughts.  
After the timer wound down, he gingerly levered the toast out, laid it by pairs onto plates, spooned beans over, and slid a portion under Sherlock's nose. He dropped utensils loudly, thunked mugs of tea on the table, yet Sherlock barely blinked. Elbows leaning, fingers knotted under his chin, John stared him down.  
“Not. Hungry.”  
“Well this hardly counts as food. Works out well. Eat it anyway.” John began to dig in. He spoke without looking up. “You are not leaving this table, young man, until you have cleaned your plate.” He knew Sherlock would roll his eyes, but he picked up his fork and started stuffing beans in his mouth.  
John swallowed and wiped his mouth with his napkin. He watched Sherlock eat. “I have accepted my role in this... relationship. And I'm fine with it. I wish you would, too. You solve crimes, and I help keep you in some kind of shape to do it efficiently.” John chuckled. “I am your pit crew. I fuel you, keep you in one piece, and put you back together when you've broken. At least acknowledge that much, and listen to me when I deign to intervene in your well-being. Hm?”  
“You've been watching too much Top Gear.”  
“Deflecting....”  
“I'm eating aren't I?”  
“Yes. You are. Good.” John took a swallow of tea. “And after dinner, you will take a shower and a nap.”  
“No. I need to keep working.”  
“Well, you could use a shower. And you know what they say.” At Sherlock's blank look, he continued, “I suppose you don't. Just do a mindless task to help you put your thoughts on the back burner for a while. Take a shower, take a walk. Do the washing up.” Sherlock made a face. “God forbid. How about you play for me after dinner?”  
“I want to go back to the case.”  
John leaned forward. “Please. Play for me.”

John settled in his chair as Sherlock rosined his bow. “What would you like?”  
“Oh.” John was taken aback at being _asked_. “It's almost Halloween. Something spooky? I know! The Jonathan Creek music. That.”  
“Danse Macabre? Very well.” He took a breath. “It's better with piano accompaniment.”  
“Anything you play will be wonderful.”  
Sherlock dipped his head shyly, pushed out his lower lip and brought bow to strings. He drew down slowly while plucking with the little finger of his left hand the first hint of melody and rhythm. A moment of silence, and he let fly the forceful, discordant, eerie opening bars of the waltz. Gooseflesh rose immediately on John's arms and head as he let the vibrations run over his skin and sink into his chest. He wanted to get up and dance around the room. Instead, he sat tight.  
If there was supposed to be a piano in there somewhere, John didn't miss it. For seven or eight minutes, he reveled in being an audience of one, the only one on earth who ever got to hear the man play in such a manner. Loud and soft, sweeping then whispering, crisp and strident, Sherlock played it, swayed with it, deeply committed to the piece. John might not have been in the room for all the notice he took of his audience, but it was all for him.  
Tears sprang to his eyes, and he was suddenly fighting to keep his breathing even. He was losing.  
He had _missed_ this when Sherlock was dead. He had missed his music, his very presence, his voice. He had missed being Sherlock's only friend. He had missed this life, and who ever gets their lost ones back? Only Sherlock could have granted that miracle. John wiped his eyes surreptitiously, and blew out a soft breath. Thankfully, the piece was ending, and John hid his emotion in applause as Sherlock sketched a bow.  
“Bravo! Wonderful, Sherlock! Perfect.” He stood and took the steps to Sherlock's side. He touched his shoulder. “Really. Thank you. What a privilege, to get to hear you play.” He beamed and Sherlock basked in the praise.  
“You're welcome, John. But really, 'the Jonathan Creek music'?”  
“Don't tease and ruin it. Not all of us know –”  
Sherlock gasped. “That's it, John! Oh! You've done it again!” Sherlock grabbed his shoulders, hands full of bow and violin neck.  
“What?”  
Sherlock leaned down. “BONES!”

* * *

They didn't do many stakeouts. Sherlock preferred to dig electronically in databases, on CCTV feeds, or with Google Earth from the comfort of Baker Street. He'd done all that, and it hadn't been enough, so here they were making their way to a long, dark alley between Neap's dance club and an old theater in the East End near the river. It was a properly miserable night, chilly, foggy, raw. John hunched in his black donkey jacket, acting as lookout while Sherlock scoped the security system.  
“ _John_.” Sherlock beckoned him over, pressed against the brick wall under a camera. “Leg up.”  
John ran over, laced his hands together and braced as Sherlock stepped into the stirrup. John hefted him up vertically. Sherlock slapped the camera, pointing it up and away from the back doors before landing lightly back on the pavement.  
“Other one.” They jogged midway down and repeated the exercise. John brushed the grit off his palms, then stuck his hands in his coat. Sherlock adjusted his collar and did the same. He looked for a good vantage point. “Follow me.”  
They walked to the stage door. There were three steps up along the wall to a landing surrounded by a metal railing. The door looked unused. There was a similar exit for the club across the alley, closer to the street.  
“John, take a step up, and back against the wall.” He obliged. They were now of a height. Sherlock angled himself toward John to block all but John's face from view. “When anyone comes out, I want you to watch over my shoulder, tell me who you see. It will be less suspicious than having us both looking.”  
“It'd be easier if you could just look, like me.”  
“I could just pretend to be a smoker all evening....”  
“No! No. This-- this will be fine. Perfectly innocent, couple of guys, what? Hanging out on the step of an old theater. Happens all the time. The smugglers will never suspect.”  
“I'll make you smoke with me. We'll look very natural.”  
“No, this is good. It's fine.” John sighed.  
And they waited.

Some likely lads came and went from the door, pounding beats spilling out with the people. Some obvious clubbers, too, couples and groups who came out to smoke, who went back in quickly, laughing drunkenly. It was easy to tell who was not there for fun. And it was easy to recognize people who were unused to the chill London air. John described them all, Sherlock looking around occasionally to memorize the new faces. Some he'd seen in the few surveillance photos from the Yard, probably bouncers, but some people were obviously new in town, possibly from warmer climes.  
A small group of black men walked down the alley from the street, stopping outside the door. A small Asian man stepped outside, looked up and down the alley before leaving the doorway to greet them.  
“Uh, Sherlock, look at this one.”  
Sherlock turned nonchalantly, registered the new face, and moved back next to John. And moved closer still. He pressed against him entirely, making John shiver as lips brushed his ear.  
“That's our man. Don't move. Keep watching.”  
John gasped softly. Sherlock tugged on John's earlobe with his lips. “ _What –_ ”  
“Shut up, John. Go with it.”  
John tried to go with it as Sherlock smoothed a palm over John's belly, hooking around his waist, snugging him to his side. He nibbled up John's neck, tugging his collar away, and back to his nape, John's knees going weak. “Oh god, oh... god. _Jesus_... mmm....” He barely held in a moan as Sherlock kissed his jaw, but he kept watching, even when his eyes drooped with the pleasure of having his exposed skin ravaged gently by that mouth. “Mmm-- they're looking at us,” he whispered. Sherlock braced his forearm against the flaking brick and went in for the kill. He took John's mouth in a kiss, swallowed the groan of pleasure elicited when he slid his hand lower onto John's bottom and pulled him in tighter, grinding his hip against John's fly. John's eyes fluttered, but the men were shifting uncomfortably now, some taking a step toward them, others pulling them away and inside. One lingered on the landing.  
Sherlock pulled back, looked at John's face watching over his shoulder and turned around, catching the man's disgusted glare. “ _Piss off!_ ” Sherlock hissed. The man spat on the ground, but went inside. Sherlock stood straight. “Come on. We need to get out of here.”  
He grabbed John's sleeve and got him running. They didn't stop moving until they were in a cab. 

Sherlock texted furiously as they headed back to Baker Street.  
“What was that, Sherlock? Back there? The kissing?”  
“Did it bother you?” He hit send.  
John shifted on the seat. “Define 'bother'.”  
Sherlock gave him a look. “I needed your very expressive face to convey real... arousal. And it worked. You were very convincing, even as you spied. Very good, John.”  
“But why? Why that?”  
“Didn't you enjoy it? I know what you like. I've watched you on the sofa with your girlfriends often enough. Didn't I do it right?”  
“Of course you did it right, Sherlock.” John sighed in exasperation. One could never talk in a straight line with this man.  
“Was that your first time kissing a man?” Sherlock's phone chimed. He began composing a new text.  
“Was it _yours?_ ”  
“I asked you first.” He hit send again. He looked up expectantly.  
John cleared his throat. “Kissing? Yes.”  
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. “I see. Well, in any case, you did very well.” He put his phone away. “Those were Kenyan poachers and their Thai fence. Three years ago, a half ton of ivory was intercepted in Thailand. God knows how many endangered creatures were killed for their tusks. Disgusting.  
“It seems there will always be a call for ivory. The ring has been active all along, and apparently London is a safer port for smuggling ivory these days. Perhaps it's such an unlikely place to find ivory, they thought it would be safer than Asia. I don't know yet. Regardless, you can imagine that the kind of men willing to kill rare animals for their tusks and horns are not the kind of people one wants to bump into in a dark alley. So, I factored in one of Britain's colonial exports: homophobia.”  
“You created a defensive shield of gay PDA? Seriously?”  
Sherlock shrugged. “It worked. Never discount the power of social discomfort. The Kenyans might have been disgusted and prone to attacking, but not in a foreign country, and not with such a big deal pending. They don't want trouble, and they wouldn't touch us, and they certainly wouldn't look at us too long. The Thai could have gone either way, though. Glad he went inside first.”  
John looked out the window at all the dark alleys passing by. “Amazing.”  
“Anyway, it's in the Yard's hands now. So,” Sherlock smirked, “Afghanistan or Iraq?”  
“What?” John asked.  
“Afghanistan or Iraq. Where did you not-kiss a man for the first time?”


	2. Chapter 2

Lestrade occupied Sherlock's armchair opposite John, as Sherlock was restless and standing. Lestrade held the cup and saucer on his knee and smiled.   
“This is nice. Glad to get out the squad room for a bit, do business with a civilized air. And you broke out the good china. Better than that dreck from the machine in a paper cup. Pass me a digestive, would you, John?”   
John smiled and, after a confused back and forth with Lestrade lacking enough hands to steady his tea and the biscuit plate, John laid one on his saucer.   
“So? Who was arrested?” Sherlock asked impatiently from his place by the window. He fiddled with the curtains. “It's been days and days with no word from you. Did we get Neap?”  
“Neap? No. Not enough to tie him to the transaction. But we recovered the crates of contraband off-site, and had enough to detain the fence and the Kenyans. Why did you suspect that group in particular?”   
Sherlock peered down the street. “They were all wearing red in some form. A lucky color in their culture if they were from Kenya, a country that deals in biologicals like ivory and horn. They looked cold when it wasn't that cold a night, probably just arrived from a much warmer climate. When an Asian came out to greet them immediately, I assumed they were those whom I was after. I texted the Yard....”   
“Good hunch,” Lestrade affirmed. Sherlock scoffed. “You realize you stopped a transaction worth at least a million pounds, and disrupted a long-standing international smuggling route. Well done.”   
“You could see what colors they were wearing in that darkness?” John asked. Sherlock nodded. “Amazing.”   
“Not really. Your eyes weren't exactly wide open, were they?”   
John gave him a warning glare.   
“Anyway, due to your efforts, now we know Neap is rising in the world of crime, making connections, even if we didn't nab him for this one. Much appreciated.” Lestrade bit his biscuit, pushing a large crumb in with the side of his finger. “Sherlock? You hear me?”   
“Hmm.”   
“What's going on, Sherlock?” John asked. “Are you expecting something?”   
Sherlock sighed. “Mycroft.”   
A black car pulled up in front. It was a matter of a minute before the elder Holmes made his way to the sitting room. He leaned on his umbrella and smiled softly.   
“Hello, Inspector.”   
“Mycroft.”   
“Hello, John.”   
“Hello, Mycroft. Cup of tea?”   
“Always so hospitable, Doctor. Perhaps in a minute.” He turned to the third with a sombre look. “Hello, brother.”   
Sherlock's brow knit slightly. “What is it?” He turned warily, braced for something.   
Mycroft leaned with both hands cupped over the handle of his umbrella and looked at his shoes. “It's our mother,” he said, looking up. “She's dead.”

* * *

The limousine ride to Hampshire was quiet. Lestrade and John chatted on and off, but Sherlock was sullen, which was neither unusual nor inappropriate given the circumstances. John sat in the middle. Every now and then he'd turn to check on his friend staring out the window before returning to conversation with Lestrade. He'd seldom seen Sherlock so subdued.  
They turned into the gravel drive of a stone house: solid, not too grand, but the family seat of a line of country squires, no doubt. The front door opened and the housekeeper stepped out to greet the car as it pulled up.  
John and Lestrade slid out and headed for the boot, grabbing the bags. Sherlock exited and stood, inhaling deeply, casting his eyes around him.  
They were welcomed into the foyer where they stood uneasily until Mycroft appeared from the front room.  
“Glad to see you all. A good ride, I trust?” He reached for Lestrade's hand. “So glad you could come, Gregory.”  
Lestrade gripped his hand warmly. “After all we've been through together, between the cases and your little brother, I'm glad to be here for you both. Again, my condolences.”  
“Thank you. And John. Always a pleasure. Please come in and have a drink.” He ushered the two into the lofty room, Sherlock lagging behind. The housekeeper took their coats, and they sat near the mullioned windows with a soft autumn landscape beyond. Mycroft dithered over the drinks cart. “Whiskey?”  
“Yes,” John and Lestrade said together. Mycroft handed out tumblers, Sherlock declined his.  
“You have a lovely home,” Lestrade offered.  
Sherlock and Mycroft shared a look. “Thank you. I suppose it is truly ours now, isn't it Sherlock?”  
“Yours, technically,” Sherlock intoned.  
A tall, wizened woman in a dark navy uniform entered. The men stood. “You remember Mummy's nurse, don't you, Sherlock? Or has it been that long since you've visited? Gentlemen, Matron Holloway. John, you will be interested to know Matron was in the RAMC before we were lucky enough to secure her services for my mother.”  
John snapped upright. “Ma'am.”  
“A pleasure, Captain. I've read your blog. On occasion, I used to read it aloud to your mother, as well, Mr. Holmes. I'd leave out the more dangerous escapades, of course.”  
“A drink, Matron? We have some time before the service begins.”

The graveside mourners were few: the sons, their friends, the staff, a couple of old-timers from the village. Still, it was not a matter of numbers.   
John glanced aside as the vicar said his final words over the coffin to the sounds of soft sniffles from a couple of the women in attendance. Sherlock had been quiet. Mycroft was reserved, but his brother seemed too flat, given the occasion. John sidled up beside him, brushed their arms together. He leaned back and caught Lestrade's eye, who stood on Mycroft's other side. John shrugged and shook his head minutely. When Greg put his arm around Mycroft's narrow shoulders and Mycroft allowed his head to droop in sorrow, John took Sherlock's hand and squeezed. He got little reaction.   
The Holmes boys did not do emotion well.

* * *

John reclined in the very large and comfortable bed in the otherwise austere bedroom he was assigned, scrolling through his emails, checking the hits on his blog. He heard the door open, sensed Sherlock's presence in the doorway. He looked up.  
“I'm surprised you've got such great wifi out here. Uhp – well, maybe not. I just remembered who your brother is. Of course, he's probably got a secret lair in the wine cellar that would make a Bond villain cry with envy. Good wifi is just a bonus when you can launch a nuclear attack from your country house.” Sherlock didn't move, just fiddled with the tie on his robe. John put down his tablet. “Come here.” He lifted the covers.  
“I'm not tired.” He dropped his robe, climbed in next to John anyway, and lay on his back.  
“Of course not.” They sat in silence for a moment in the dim light from the one lamp. “I enjoyed dinner.”  
“We always had good cooks. Mycroft was always their favorite because he'd eat anything. I was more picky.”  
“What a shock,” John deadpanned. Sherlock chuckled darkly. John reached over and covered Sherlock's hand, then patted it. “Come here, come closer.” He tugged on Sherlock until the man scooted over and curled up at John's side with John's arm around his shoulder and his head tucked on John's chest. John rubbed his upper arm, leaned over and pressed a kiss to the top of his curly head. He breathed in the sweet scent of him. If he wasn't careful, he'd end up fighting tears again, breathing that scent he'd missed when Sherlock was dead. Instead, he began to talk.  
“Matron Holloway is a very interesting woman. We chatted all through dinner, traded war stories – literally. You know what they call us? The RAMC? The Linseed Lancers. I always loved that nickname.” He kissed Sherlock's head again, rubbed his arm. He wondered if Sherlock had ever had this kind of comfort in the big old house growing up. From his parents? His nanny? Mycroft? Perhaps he'd read to Sherlock before bed, sent his little brother off to sleep with sweet dreams. Perhaps not.  
“The, um, your father's headstone. I understand your pseudonym, now. Siger Holmes, Sigerson. But what made you use James? James Sigerson.”  
“James is the English for Hamish,” Sherlock murmured. He left it at that, and John let him. He continued chatting, his voice getting soft and gravelly with the late hour.  
“You know Greg – that's Lestrade, in case you've deleted his name again – he's really chuffed to be here for you two. I'm so glad Mycroft extended the invitation when he expressed an interest in attending. I don't think you realize what a good friend he is to us. We need to spend more time with him, I think, not involving cases. He's a pretty lonely guy since he left his wife. We should do some take-away and movie nights.”  
“Hmm.” Sherlock burrowed in closer and tipped his head up. “He likes the country air. We can take him for a walk after breakfast.” He smiled softly at John, enough to crinkle his eyes.  
“Good idea.” John brushed the curls off Sherlock's forehead and pressed a kiss to his warm skin.  
Sherlock lay back down, his hands furled at his chest. “You touch me a lot lately.”  
“You need it. I'm glad to give it to you.” John slid farther down into bed. “And you like it.”  
“Hmm.” Sherlock propped himself up on an elbow. He leaned in and placed a lush kiss on John's mouth, then settled against John's side again.  
“We're going to have to talk about the kissing thing. Not tonight, though.” John stretched his arm over and switched off the light. He put his tablet on the table, and returned to a Sherlock rapidly claiming more of John with an arm across his belly, and a leg over his leg. As long as it meant that Sherlock would sleep, John wasn't bothered. Not by any definition of the word.

* * *

As they finished eating, Mycroft instructed Cook to bring a tray up to Matron Holloway if she wasn't feeling like coming down to breakfast. It was certainly understandable the day after her charge's funeral.  
Sherlock smoothed out his suit as he rose from the table. “Lestrade, would you care for a post-jentacular perambulation?”  
John and Lestrade both snorted. John recovered first. “Okay, now you just sound like a prat. A very posh prat.”  
“Yeah, sounds like you're offering me a very fancy shag or something.”  
“One gets very few chances to use jentacular. It's like penultimate. Or prandial.”  
“Oh. Okay. I know what this is,” John remembered. “Ta, context. Greg, he's asking if you'd like to take a walk after breakfast. That being now.”  
“Oh! Absolutely. Just grab our coats and let's go. I'd love to see the place.”  
As they collected their things from the closet, Cook came scurrying from the back stairs to the foyer. “Mr. Holmes!” She looked around for the elder, and settled for Sherlock. “Mr. Holmes, there's something--” She froze, looking at Lestrade in particular.  
“What is it?”  
She gestured Sherlock to the side and whispered in his ear. He straightened, then ran for the stairs. “Come on!”  
John and Lestrade looked at each other, then broke for the stairway. They ran up as fast as they could to the third story servant quarters, and found Sherlock in the only room with an open door, and a tray abandoned on the table in the hall. He was hovering just inside, trying not to touch anything. In the bed was an obviously dead woman. On the nightstand a bottle of pills, a suicide note, and a parchment letter with a red wax seal. 


	3. Chapter 3

“Let me see it, Lestrade! Give me the parchment!” Sherlock had been physically dragged out of the crime scene and down the hall. “I know what that means! I know what it means! It's him! It's him! John, please!”   
John held Sherlock around his chest, pinning him against the wall. He wouldn't let him move if it meant he'd barge back into the Matron's bedroom and disturb what might be crucial evidence.   
Lestrade had already called the local Chief Constable and reported the death, mentioned that it was almost certainly part of a larger series of crimes in London.   
Mycroft stood to the side quietly, running through variations of covering his face with both hands.   
“Mycroft, make them let me go! Mycroft! Please! It's him! You know it's him!”   
Lestrade strode up to Sherlock, all copper, all business. John moved out of the way as Greg grabbed both shoulders. Sherlock stopped yelling.   
“Look,” Lestrade said quietly, “I can't let you near that room unless you calm down, yeah? Breathe. Breathe.” He watched as Sherlock obeyed. “Now, what I will do is read you the notes. That's as much as you get right now, okay? We understand each other?” He released Sherlock gently, checked with John, then headed back to the bedroom.   
Sherlock stopped at the threshold.   
Lestrade stepped carefully across the wooden floor, avoiding the small carpet, until he was within view of the letters.   
“Which do you want first?”   
“The parchment.”   
“Alright. It's short. It just says, handwritten in ink, 'Do it today.' That's all. Words're in the middle of the page, it's folded in thirds and sealed. Seal was cracked open to read. And, yeah, it looks like the same one from the kidnapping case.”   
“Read the other one.”  
Lestrade leaned over, squinting, tilting his head to read the note without touching. “'What have we got? Typical stationery, handwritten in ink, different ink than the – anyway. 'I'm so ashamed. I let him corrupt me and the memory of my service. There is no honor in what I have done. He made me murder Mrs. Holmes. I felt I had no choice. I'm so sorry.' That's it. No salutation, no signature even. I'm sure we'll find that it's in her own hand. No reason for it not to be.”   
Sherlock stood, stance wide, shaking fingertips spread against his temples. “All right. 'Do it today.' Assume she – did it on the day she received the note, we can try and trace her actions, see how she came into possession of that letter. Was it delivered? Was it handed to her in town or somewhere else? Did the messenger bring it here? There is precious little CCTV in the village, the police will have to interview witnesses. Also, there's a possibility that she didn't get the letter for a period of time after it was left for her or delivered to a postal box. Perhaps it didn't matter when she did it, just that it would assuredly be done once she got the note. The sender could afford to be patient. That will make it much harder to track the source of the command.”   
Lestrade exited the room, crowding Sherlock back into the hallway. “Now, both of you,” he indicated the Holmes brothers, “go downstairs and wait for the police. You cannot be involved too closely from here on out.”   
Mycroft nodded heavily and headed toward the stairs in a daze. “Yes. I suppose I will have to arrange for a disinterment. Forensics, exact cause of death....”   
Sherlock grabbed his shoulder and turned him. “ _Is that all??_ ” he bellowed. “Will you roll over and let these bumpkins handle this case? _This case, Mycroft!_ Moriarty MURDERED our MOTHER! In our _own house!_ ”   
“Moriarty is dead, Sherlock! Dead!”   
“Is he? Really? You covered it up. He's merely incommunicado as far as his minions are concerned! YOU kept him alive! You kept the fear of him alive for your own purposes! His people are still carrying out orders in his name! HE KILLED MUMMY! Right under your nose! He had a mole in this house!”   
John tugged at Sherlock's arm, trying to pull him away from his brother obviously crumbling under the weight of grief and guilt. Sherlock shrugged him off violently, grabbed the full teapot and heaved it down the hallway. The spout caught on a door jamb and spun the pot sharply to crash against the floor, spraying tea and shards of porcelain everywhere.   
“Right.” John and Lestrade each grabbed an arm and manhandled Sherlock away from Mycroft and down the stairs. On the family floor, John asked firmly, “Where's your room?” Sherlock indicated with his head, and soon he was ushered into it. Sherlock stood alone in the middle of the carpet, tensed. “Greg,” John murmured, “why don't you go check on Mycroft or the police or something.”   
“Yeah. 'Course.” His eyes shifted warily between the two. “Yell if you need me.” He shut the door quietly behind him. They stood in silence hearing his tread down the hall.   
Sherlock began to move in an increasing spiral, spinning out until he hit a piece of furniture, practically caroming off the walls.   
“I can't think! I can't – I need to think!” He pounded his head with his hands. “Think, dammit! Why did he kill – why did she – Gahh!”   
John approached cagily, hands out, corralling him to a corner. “Take it easy –”   
“I need some, John! I need my kit! This is important!”   
“No! Don't be ridiculous!”   
“Right now, my mind is as coherent as a shaken snow globe. It's whirling! I need it! I need to focus!”   
“Cocaine is not the answer, Sherlock.” John took a beat. “I could find you a cigarette somewhere.”   
“It's not enough.”   
“You are not taking drugs, Sherlock. I won't let you. It's ridiculous. Just give yourself a moment.”   
“It's not enough! I need to reboot! Damn it!” He pulled at his hair, and turned to the wall, pounding a fist.   
John took a chance and put his hand softly in the middle of Sherlock's back. “I'm so sorry. This is horrible. Your mum.... Just – we'll work it out. I promise.” Sherlock froze, then turned slowly, a wild look in his eye. John froze, too, eyes wide. “Don't break anything.”   
Sherlock seized John and shoved him against the wall. He bent down and devoured John's mouth, ingesting him like the drug he craved. He smashed their lips together, gripping John's jacket in bunches. His open mouth ran along John's jaw, down past his Adam's apple. He tugged at John's coat and shirt together. He couldn't get them off fast enough.   
“Oh my god,” John panted, shrugging out of his clothes. “You're doing this. I'm going to _let_ you do this.”   
Sherlock pulled away from John's skin, heaving breaths, “ _I need some. Give me some._ ”   
“Some what?” John choked, dazed, knees buckling.   
Sherlock pulled open John's button-down, fell to his knees and buried his face in John's belly, nosing farther and farther down into his waistband, hands up John's chest, grasping skin and nipples.   
“Oh, fuck. _Christ_.”   
Sherlock unbuckled John's belt, fumbled with his fly, until John helped, hands shaking. Sherlock attacked John's prick through his pants with his mouth. John had to push him away. “Easy! Jesus! Bed. Now!” He pulled Sherlock to his feet and shuffled him backward to the bed. They fell back, Sherlock pulling John on top, grabbing John's face and snogging him inartfully, but effectively. John moaned, grinding himself against Sherlock's hard, bony hip.   
“Make me, John. _Make me._ ”   
“God, yes.” He palmed Sherlock firmly, finding him not fully aroused, but getting there. He kneaded him through his clothes. “Fly,” he ordered, sliding down Sherlock's body. Sherlock had his trousers open by the time John got settled again. “You want to stop thinking?” John dove in, taking Sherlock to the root, the man arching beneath him, uttering word fragments and guttural, sonorous noises.   
It had been a while, John had liked sucking men, and he really liked Sherlock reacting to every change in pressure, every new texture of his tongue, to his hand squeezing, to the other caressing his stomach. Sherlock was beautiful. Flushed, writhing, panting, calling out, beating the mattress with the backs of his hands when he wasn't sliding them through John's hair.   
John was so hard, _so_ hard. He wanted Sherlock, he wanted to come together. He pulled off, quickly took both cocks in hand and stroked, milked, slick with saliva, with fluids leaking readily from both.   
“ _Juh –_ ” Sherlock grunted.   
He tugged faster, taking Sherlock's mouth, holding him down as he convulsed, arched beneath him, shuddering out a gasp. John followed at the exquisite sounds, collapsing on Sherlock's chest.   
After a moment, John felt trembling under his cheek. Laughing? Was Sherlock laughing? He looked up. Sherlock's face was twisted in a rictus, tears leaking from his closed eyes, silent sobs wracking him through clenched teeth.   
“Oh, god. Sherlock. Don't – shhhh.” John sat up on an elbow, wiping Sherlock's face, brushing tears away with his knuckles. “You okay? Did I hurt you?” Sherlock only shook his head. “Ahh, Sherlock.” John sighed, held him and waited for it to pass. 

Sherlock woke, blinked at the ceiling for a few minutes, John spread on his back by his side, snoring quietly, utterly debauched.   
He rolled deftly off the bed, cleaned himself up with his handkerchief, and let himself out of the room.

* * *

John passed the doorway to the sitting room on the way out. Mycroft sat staring, hugging a silver bowl of All Sorts. He held it out as John stopped before his chair. “Licorice?”  
“No. Thanks. Sherlock?”  
“The greenhouse, most likely. Out back.”  
John nodded and turned on his heel.  
He made his way through the rear of the house, through the French doors in the music room, to a low terrace that led onto the lawn. He headed to the only structure he could see, breathing in the misty air as he strode.  
He found Sherlock squatting in front of a box hedge near the greenhouse. He held a slender stick in his hand. John stopped and waited, watching the man contemplate a large spider web.  
Sherlock touched the end of the stick to a strand. Nothing happened. He plucked another. Nothing happened. He touched a third, and a grey spider charged to the center. John jumped.  
“We hit a tripwire, John.” He dropped the stick and stood, brushing off his hands. 


	4. Chapter 4

There was no talking Sherlock out of anything.   
John fidgeted with frustration in the back of the car as he and Sherlock made their way back to London. Lestrade stayed behind to liaise with the local police, seeing as how Moriarty's murders and other, lesser crimes, were now linked to the Holmes murder far from Lestrade's domain.   
“I can't believe you'd leave now!” John had argued.   
“There is no information to be had, here. I'm going back to Baker Street. You can stay if you like, but there's no sense in being here any longer.” Sherlock had turned his back on John, ending the discussion in his most dismissive, insulting, _infuriating_ manner.   
“I know you and Mycroft have never been close, but really, Sherlock. Don't you think he needs you now?”   
Sherlock put the figurine he'd been fiddling with back on the mantelpiece and turned. “No. He never does. The staff will see to him. As ever.”   
John pursed his mouth and shook his head. “You two. Brothers. Both such stubborn – One day, you'll need each other.” He huffed out a breath. “Just so you know... he loves you. Very much. I hope some day you can return the sentiment.”   
“Ha. Sentiment.”   
John crossed his arms. “You and I both know you aren't the cold-hearted monster you like to pretend to be. You aren't. I know it's frightening, to feel, to – ”  
“I'm going up to pack. I'm leaving in twenty minutes. You can be with me or not. I don't care.”   
Twenty minutes later, John was in the car, leaving.   
An hour later, they hadn't said a word.   
“So,” John blurted finally. “There's something we need to discuss.”   
“The _kissing thing?_ ” Sherlock sneered.   
“I think we're way past that.” John shifted to look an avoidant Sherlock in the face. “I was – _we_ were – a bit reckless earlier.”   
Sherlock played with the armrest on the door. “I'm not worried. You get yourself checked all the time– I've seen the plasters in the crease of your elbow every month. You work in a surgery, easy access to testing. It's hardly a stretch, knowing you.”   
“And you?”   
“Don't worry about me.”   
“I can't leave it at that. I need to know.”   
“I was, as they say, 'mint, in box'.”   
“Ohhh.” John frowned. “I wish I had known that.”   
“Whatever for?”   
John faced front again with a heavy sigh. He reached out blindly for Sherlock's fist resting on the seat between them and gave it a squeeze.

* * *

That night, settling back at Baker Street, Sherlock reviewed everything he knew about the case. By the next morning, he'd sent his best man to the archives in the Museum of London Docklands to dig up anything he could find about the warehouses and businesses possibly related to Neap or the ivory trade.  
John trod up the stairs at the end of a very long day of researching. He dropped a small sheaf of printouts on the desk, hung his coat on the chair and headed straight for the kettle.  
“What did you find?” Sherlock asked, hunched over his laptop set on the coffee table.  
“Ahh, well, lots, but nothing contemporary. I did find a record of an old whaling warehouse under the name of Spatchcock and Neap, Imports. I mean, how common a name is Neap anyway? Maybe it was a family business three hundred years ago. As of a hundred and fifty years ago, it was no longer a whaling business, but a tobacco importer. As of today? Hardly anything remains of the old docks. It's all been razed and repurposed, for the most part. The business is probably defunct. Tea?” John reached in the cupboard for his favorite mug.  
“No.” Sherlock sat up, tented his fingers under his chin. “Nothing exists _above_ ground. But I know the extensive vaults under the old docks are still there. We need to find the footprint of the old warehouse.”  
“That will be nigh on impossible, you know. There are parks, and recreation centers, museums, built up all over there, the channels are filled in some places. What are you expecting to find in an undercroft? Besides rats?”  
“They were whalers, you say? That's mostly blubber for oil, but would have a nice sideline in ivory and stays from bone. Maybe it was a family business from the start. There were wine importers, tanneries, tobacco importers, all sorts of far-flung goods traders that could have been supplemented by animal trade, legal and otherwise. I like this, John. This makes sense. What if there is a reason ivory was being smuggled – still being smuggled, possibly – through Neap in the middle of London? Because they've always done it? That route has always been there.”  
“But what will be the link between Neap and Moriarty? Lestrade said Neap wasn't even on the map when Moriarty died.”  
“He wasn't big enough to be on the map. Not then. Not yet.”  
“Perhaps Edgar Neap was one of the Jim'll Fix It clients.”  
“So, he asked Moriarty for help and got it. He grew his business. If we exposed his ivory ring, why would that trip a wire?” Sherlock tipped his head against the sofa back. His eyes flared wide open. “Oh! It's like a computer program, a flow chart.” He got up and strode to the kitchen, stopping beside John fixing his tea. “There are tens of thousands of crimes committed in London, in Great Britain, every day. Moriarty isn't the author of them all, but he did oversee rather long-reaching plots and had investments of time and power in innumerable ones.” He grabbed the mug and sipped, making a face. “You know I take sugar, John.”  
“Yeah, that's... mine – whatever.” He reached up for another mug and teabag, and started the process again.  
Sherlock scooped a spoon of sugar from the bowl, stirred, and drank deeply from his cup. “He promised to burn me, John. I got in his way. I ruined his plans, cost him credibility. He gave up millions of pounds, just to get my attention. He promised to burn the heart out of me.” Sherlock leaned closer to John, into his space. “The heart. That's my family. That's you. My vulnerability. He knew that before I did.”  
“You knew it. _Admit_ it to yourself... that's another thing. Let me tell you this,” John grasped Sherlock's arms. “Interesting medical fact. The heart doesn't burn. You can incinerate a body to ashes, but in the end, the heart will be sitting there in the center of it all, more or less intact. If I'm your heart, then I'm not going anywhere.”  
A haunted look washed Sherlock's features briefly. “I spent that time away from you hunting, John. I got so many, so many who could have hurt you. I'm afraid his network is so vast that it's self-propagating and it will never die.”  
“Or, it's small but potent with just a few, very lethal strands.” John released him. “So tell me about this flow chart idea.” He took his new cuppa and lead Sherlock to the sofa. He sat, and Sherlock sat right next to him.  
“I think Moriarty has set up a kind of deadman switch--”  
“Appropriate name, in this case.”  
“No! Not a deadman switch. The opposite of a deadman switch. Active, not passive. It flows like a computer program regarding the success of a venture and my possible involvement. If project equals successful, then go to End. If project equals failed then go to Next Line. Was Sherlock Holmes cause of failure? If No, go to End. If Yes, go to Implement Revenge.”  
“And the Neap case was a big one, costly. Do you think he has a ledger with a packet of wax-sealed letters in a room somewhere, checking against every large transaction he conducts via Moriarty's network?”  
“Maybe. Low-tech, high-tech, automated, who knows. Moriarty could go either way and make it look like something completely different.”  
“So, we can never know which of a million possible cases will trigger 'burning'. It's like a mine field.” John took a sip. “Well, we can't stop our work.”  
“That would be one way to decrease risk to you, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade.”  
“But then he wins!” John turned and stared. “That's... You would do that? _Could_ you do that? You'd be insane inside a month.”  
“I'd have this case to work on.” He gulped more tea, swallowed noisily, set the mug on the table. “I need more data.” He leaned forward, pulled his laptop in front of him and started Googling.  
“Do you mind if I put the telly on?” He got no response, which John took as acquiescence. 


	5. Chapter 5

By dawn, Sherlock had found some images of the old premises belonging to Spatchcock and Neap.   
“John!” Sherlock poked at the man slumped over against his side. “Wake up.”   
John stirred and groaned, stiff and cold from sleeping on the sofa, spine curved in a non-restful arc. “Whassit?” He ground the heel of his hand into his eye socket.   
“I've found etchings. Look.” He pointed at the screen. “I know exactly where that is.”   
“Jesus. It's too early. Going to bed. Ow.” He creaked as he stood, banged into the table littered with take-away containers, and shuffled out of the room.  
“It's not too early! The day is wasting!”   
“That building has been there hundreds of years. It'll still be there after I've lain in bed a while and un-pretzeled my back. G'night.” 

Sherlock practically bounced as they prepared to leave.   
“Torches.” They both pulled one out of their coats. “Check. Pistol?” John pulled it adroitly from his waistband, automatically eyed the safety, and put it back. “Good. The game is afoot, John! Let's go!”   
He spun on his heel and bounded down the stairs, John running behind, their hearts pounding. 

“Yeah, this part always feels so anti-climactic.” John put his Oyster card away in his wallet, and waited for the train to Canada Water station.   
“True,” Sherlock agreed ruefully. 

At the old docklands, they exited the modern barrel shape of the station, pulses beginning to speed with anticipation again, headed north toward what would have been the quay, and was now a road with a flattened area near the water and a block of old stone buildings with a sooty facade facing the water. If it hadn't been midday, John might have got the heebie jeebies from the area. It looked like something out of a Victorian Ripper movie.   
“Here. Look.” Sherlock pointed up at an ancient timber embedded above the stone lintel of the door. Deeply carved in the blackened wood was the name of the old whaling business.   
“So, what? We just walk in?”   
“It is a business....” Sherlock grabbed the handle of the massive wooden door and heaved it open.   
They found it dark inside, despite the windows. They pulled out their torches before tugging the door closed behind them.   
“Hello?” Sherlock's quiet baritone echoed off plaster walls, the commercial space inside rather empty, sacks of god-knew-what in pyramids about the perimeter. “Good. No one's here,” he whispered. “Look for a stairway down. I'm hoping for a tunnel.”   
“To where?”   
Sherlock turned toward the road and the river beyond. “To that way. Come on.”   
“There's definitely going to be rats.” John shook his head and followed.   
They found an open trap door inside the office area. The fact that it was open gave them pause.   
“Not so deserted, then,” John said, readjusting his pistol.   
“Just be careful. Let's see what we can see.”   
“Right behind you.” John looked around before following Sherlock into the hole in the floor. 

They made their way at least a hundred yards through a stone rib-vaulted tunnel lined with old casks. Not a rat was to be seen, but a damp, meaty smell permeated the place. Dust is eloquent, as Sherlock had once said, and the brown stuff covered everything except a well-trodden path between the barrels. Ahead was a dim glow. Bare bulbs hung from the ceiling, wires run along the top of the wall. They came to a stop, crouched behind a barrel.   
“If you'd ever seen The Last Crusade, this scene would be amusingly familiar,” John whispered. Sherlock cocked his head. “Hoary old geezer, looks about a hundred, watching over something, sitting in a cave by himself. Trust me, hilarious.”   
“I have an idea. Follow along.” Sherlock unwrapped his scarf and draped it flat under his collar and lapels. He pushed at his forelock of curls, combing with his fingers until his forehead showed and his hair was slicked back. His posture slumped into Euro-trash gangster wanna-be instantly, and his face went slack. He strode out of the darkness toward the old man at his desk like a boss.   
“OI! Wake up!” Sherlock shouted. The old man startled badly and dropped his newspaper. He wore a waistcoat and shirtsleeves, and a knitted scarf around his shoulders. “Which one're you, then?”   
The man stood shakily. “'M Spatchcock. Joshua. Who are you?”   
Sherlock smiled nastily at John. “Yeah, we're 'ere to relieve you of some of your responsibili'ies, seein' as how Neap royally stuffed up his last job.”   
“What d'you mean? You gunna kill me?” He clutched his scarf tightly.   
“Nah. Nuffin' that drastic.”   
“Who sent you?” Spatchcock asked warily, showing some fire now that he wasn't about to die. Probably.   
“You know who sent us. Mr. M wants us to collect all the materials. So give it.”   
“But I ain't even been paid! How's a man supposed ta eat? I need--”   
“Yeah, you need to shut it. You'll get paid. You always do, don't ya? Don't ya?”   
“Suppose so,” the old man agreed morosely. He scratched at the white scruff on his cheek and turned to an ancient safe against the back of the vault. He stooped over and spun the combination. He pulled out a cloth-bound book, balancing two wax-sealed letters on top. He offered them up with both hands.   
Sherlock took them with a little nod. “Send Neap our regards. Seen him lately?”   
Spatchcock snorted. “Buggered off, dinnee? Lousy piece a.... Only tolerate him cos of the business relation, you know. 'Course, Mr. M thought enough of 'im.”   
“Well, there's always plenty to go around, when you're wif Mr. M. 'Ere.” Sherlock fished a tenner out of his pocket and dropped it on the desk. “Get a pint and a bacon butty, on me.”   
Sherlock tucked the book under his arm and left. John looked the old man over.   
“It's a sunny day. You should get out more.” He walked away backwards a few steps, keeping an eye on the old gent, making sure he didn't pull a shotgun on them. Then he jogged into the dark. 

Back on the street, John giggled as they hastened from the warehouse, checking over his shoulder every few seconds. “That was fantastic! How do you do that?” he asked, watching Sherlock reknot his scarf and fix his hair. “You just become someone else. I'll never get tired of watching that.”   
“And I enjoy watching you pull rank. Glad we can amuse each other.” He grinned back as John pulled out his phone and dialed Lestrade.   
“You like that, huh? Greg! Yeah. You need to meet us at Baker Street right away.... Sure, we'll have tea. Bye.” John laughed again, and they made their way home. 

“Seriously, Greg, you should have seen him transform. He wasn't half a Kray when he got done. Scary.”   
“I'd pay good money to see that sometime.”   
“Why?” Sherlock drawled. “According to Donovan, I've been masquerading as a human being for ages. You get to see that for free all the time.”   
“True. So, what'd you find? A book?” He dug a plastic evidence bag out of his coat pocket.   
“An outpost,” John said. “A desk with a phone and a pensioner sitting waiting for word from someone, somewhere, sometime. We can't know how many of these little cells are out there, Greg.”   
Lestrade held open the bag as Sherlock slid it all in. “The seals aren't broken. Dare I hope for self-control from Sherlock Holmes?”   
John scoffed. “He peeked. Very carefully. Same message inside, more or less.”   
“If Moriarty runs things on such a personal level, it's going to be hideously difficult to track it all down,” Sherlock groused. “Not like tracing IP addresses, or destroying his database, which would be difficult enough.”   
“I'm afraid,” Lestrade said, sealing the bag, “that it might all be moot, if your brother has anything to say about it.”  
“How is he?” John asked.   
“Well, by the time I left last night, he was back to his old self. All I can say is Moriarty is lucky he's already dead. I don't think the Yard will have control over this case for much longer.” He hefted the evidence in his hand. “I believe the term is 'high dudgeon'. Impressive.”   
Sherlock exhaled in disgust and curled tighter in his armchair.   
“Hey.” John moved to put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. “The important thing is that Mycroft won't stop. It's about your mother, not your involvement.”   
“Mycroft has never been shy about asking for my department's help when he needs it. You'll be involved. He'll demand it, and you'll pretend to resent it.”   
They pricked up their ears as the front door opened and closed.   
“That'll be Mrs. Hudson back from her Mediterranean cruise with her sister,” Sherlock said. “I ought to go fill her in.”   
“And help with the bags...” John prompted.   
“Well, naturally.” Sherlock popped up from the chair with alacrity and left for downstairs.   
“Because he's always so eager to fetch and carry for me,” John said.   
“I get the impression that he is closer to Mrs. H than he was to his own mother.”   
“Me, too.” The two smiled at each other recalling a certain CIA agent who fell out a window a few times.   
“So, she couldn't make the funeral because she was on her cruise?”   
“Actually, she didn't make it because Sherlock and I decided not to ruin her vacation by telling her at all. No use. You know she'd have insisted on cutting her trip short, and she can do her best work coddling Sherlock now, after the fact.”   
“And, chances are, she was safer on a ship while there was murdering going on?”   
“That factored in as well, later.” John sat in Sherlock's empty chair. “Christ, Greg. Will this never end?”   
“With us? No. Better make it worth all the worry, eh?”   
They raised a tea cup to each other and smiled.


	6. Chapter 6

John was running out of fingers to count the number of times he'd come home to find Mycroft Holmes standing under Speedy's awning holding a folder. Once again, he waited, primly blowing cigarette smoke into the falling snow instead of a pelting rain.  
“Good evening, John.” He dropped his butt and ground it out.  
“Those will kill you, Mycroft.”  
“Yes... I'm aware, Doctor.”  
“And it's not very nice to taunt your brother, who is having a very hard time resisting nicotine these days, with the smell of cigarettes on your clothes.”  
“But I'm not planning on seeing my brother. Just you.”  
“The hell you are. You are coming up to the flat, I am making you a coffee, and Sherlock and I will both sit and listen about whatever is in that file you're holding. And you will visit with your brother.”  
“So _forceful_ , John.” Mycroft smiled wryly and gestured for him to lead the way. 

“Mycroft. What do _you_ want?” Sherlock asked from his spot hunched over his laptop.  
“I have an update. Coffee will not be necessary, thank you.” He laid his coat and umbrella on the desk, and held up the folder. “Edgar Neap,” he enunciated. “Short version: I have him.”  
“Where?” Sherlock asked urgently, John clenching his fists beside him.  
'That's classified, I'm afraid. Suffice it to say, that with all the evidence we have against him – fingerprints, IDs from the villagers near the house, wax residue under his nails, and the like – he will be held indefinitely as we... extract all the details of the structure of Moriarty's web of crime that he is withholding. Even some he is unaware he is withholding.”  
“I want to see him.”  
“Oh, no, Sherlock. He is going to become a puppet for us. I can't have you breaking my toys.”  
John looked between the two brothers. “Do you have any further leads? Any idea what cases those two letters were linked to?”  
“Not precisely. However, we have a team of forensic accountants tracing the money trail. Always follow the money, yes?” Mycroft gathered himself. “Sherlock, I know this is usually a futile instruction to issue to you, but stay away from this case. Completely.”  
“You can't – ”  
“You must! You have managed to keep your identity rather well hidden from certain portions of this cell. I may need you to reprise your role of the – how did he put it? – yes, 'the Kray twin' if that is who it seems has moved up in Neap's absence. You may be useful then. Until that time....”  
Sherlock fumed. “I cannot do _nothing_.”  
“You will. We have this well in hand. Here are a few things for you to peruse.” He presented the file. “Some current photographs of Neap, bits and bobs. Things you already know. If you are very good, I may bring you more later on.”  
“I'll be on my best behavior,” Sherlock promised unconvincingly.  
“For the good of _all involved_ , Sherlock, you had better. John.” Mycroft tipped his head, gathered his things and glided away.

* * *

Autumn turned to Yule in a few short weeks, it seemed, but the time dragged for Sherlock.  
Mycroft hijacked the case entirely, as expected. Spatchcock and Neap, Imports was now a subsidiary of the British government, still operating as a cell, but manned by highly trained agents with better equipment than an old black phone on a desk. If any of Moriarty's threads were plucked again, Mycroft's people would get the message and the trail would get very hot, very quickly.  
Until then, Sherlock tried to be patient, in his own way. John watched it happen day after day. He'd take on simple cases from the website, solve them in a trice, then crawl the walls until the next. He scoured the papers for codes, for hidden crimes, but dismissed the promising ones when they smelled of politics or high finance, anything likely to be a risk.  
“He's obviously related to the Prime Minister!” he'd say, tapping a picture in the paper. “Look at his ears!” Or, “She's in an illegal experimental pharmaceutical trial. See the round shape of her face?”  
John had his own frustrations. He hadn't dated anyone since Emily; it seemed a waste of time, and his heart was not in it. Sherlock never indicated he'd like a repeat of that one remarkable moment they'd had together. Perhaps it was too much to expect that he'd know how to ask for affection. He accepted it readily enough, gave it to Mrs. Hudson spontaneously. But not to John.  
John came home one evening with a wrapped box. He thought about waiting, putting it under their little tree, but he didn't want to wait.  
Sherlock turned the box over in his hands: square box, heavy, center of gravity shifting, no information to be gleaned from the plain brown shopping bag....  
“Just open it, will you?” John sat, knee up on the sofa, as Sherlock quickly dismantled the bow and paper. He opened the cardboard and pulled out – a glass snow globe.  
“It's... hideous. Really.” Sherlock tipped it this way and that, making the white snowflakes swirl around a cliched amalgam of London landmarks improbably crammed next to each other.  
“True. I'll grant you that. It's more symbolic than decorative.”  
Sherlock scowled a bit. “Please tell me this isn't my Christmas present. I got you _such_ a good one.”  
“Rude!” John laughed. “And, no, it's not. Although I can only pray that by 'such a good one' you don't mean a rare strain of anthrax in a petri dish.”  
“No, of course not.”  
“All right. Um, how do I say this without it getting weird? I suppose it's already weird.” John gestured weakly at the globe. “If you ever.... I imagine that you sometimes need... or want... something.”  
“John... just say it.”  
“You said that time that your mind was like a swirling snow globe. I know you aren't accustomed to asking for or even expecting affection from other people, certainly not sex, but if you ever need it from me, a reboot, and you can't find the words, just shake the globe. Or leave it out somewhere. That's all.”  
Sherlock's eyebrows rose as he turned the globe over and back. He cleared his throat softly. “All right.”  
“Good.” John blushed. Damn it. “I'd really like to give you a kiss. May I?”  
Sherlock put the globe down and waited. John slid closer, put a hand on Sherlock's jaw, tracing his cheek with strokes of his thumb, and pulled him in. Frowning softly in concentration, John pressed their mouths together. Heat spiked quickly in him and, after one more kiss tilted just so, he pulled away with a tiny noise.  
“Ohhh, Sherlock. There's so much I want to give you. You have so much passion. If you'd let me, I could kiss you all day.” He straightened a bit. “You're stuck with me, you know. I'm here for the duration. If you're afraid that I'll leave you for a woman, well, then, give me an option. I'll take it.”  
Sherlock took a breath. “It's not safe. Even with Moriarty dead, John. I can't afford – ”  
“ _Bollocks_ , and you know it. Half the Yard thinks we've been shagging since we moved in here. Anyone who reads my blog knows how I feel about you. I've been a target since day one.” John gripped the edge of the sofa cushion. “After you died, I couldn't say out loud what I wanted to. Not to Ella, not to anyone. I made one of those promises, like you do, bargaining with God or whoever, that if I ever got the chance I'd tell you. I told your headstone.” He wiped his eyes briskly. “I never thought I'd get another chance.” He grabbed Sherlock and pulled him in, burying his face against Sherlock's neck, voice strained. “Love you. Every way, everything, I love you so much,” John whispered into his skin. He stilled as Sherlock's hand rose to grasp his arm and held on silently. He leaned away, sniffling, getting his control back. “Now I'm a big mess. Heh. Sorry. Okay. I'll uh...” he stood, “just take this stuff upstairs and be down in a while.”  
He grabbed empty boxes and bags from the Christmas decorations, whatever he could find, and headed for the hallway.  
“John.” He turned around. Sherlock dragged his teeth against his lip. “I'll always do whatever I have to to keep you with me. To keep you safe.”  
John only nodded, then left.  
Sherlock pulled out his phone and composed a text. He paused at the sound of angry, exasperated shouting from upstairs.  
 _“Sherlock!! Why are there BEES in the box room?”_  
“Ah. He found his present.”  
Sherlock hit 'send', scooped up the snow globe and walked purposefully up the stairs to John's bedroom.  
His phone glowed with his message for a moment before it went dark:  
 _My mother was murdered._  
 _Let's have dinner. SH_  


**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by asnowyowl
> 
> Note: the RAMC confers the title of Matron on nurses who attain the rank of Major or higher. That is why John made with all the formality – Holloway would have outranked him in the service. 
> 
> Note: ["The Danse Macabre"](http://www.youtube.com/watch?NR=1&v=_Ye03Gu2dHA&feature=endscreen)


End file.
